‘No, Dad. People die in wars. Look at your leg! Do you want the same for George?’
‘How dare you?’ Their father raised his voice only enough to make Joe be quiet. It was a commanding voice he had practised for years. ‘I was just one of the unlucky ones. Our George won’t be. He’s got a smart head on his shoulders. He’s smarter than I ever was.’
‘I have to go to work.’ Joe moved to the kitchen door, but waited on the threshold. He gave George another sad look, slightly too long so that it became awkward, then with a sigh he left. George heard the front door close a few seconds later.
‘When do you go?’ his father asked, sitting again.
George didn’t know the answer to that question. They would start training soon, he had been told, but technically he wasn’t eligible to go out to Belgium yet.
‘I don’t know. The regulars have been mobilised, but I joined the territorials, the reservists. They haven’t told us when we will be shipped out yet. I don’t even have any kit.’
He handed over the form that he had been given after enlisting, along with the shilling that he had taken as part of the ritual of signing up. ‘This is what they gave me. We’ll have drill training and then when they need us we’ll get our mobilisation orders. I’m not even old enough to go yet. They might decide to keep me back.’
‘They won’t. What did you tell them about your age?’
‘I told them that I was eighteen, almost nineteen.’
‘You gave them your actual day of birth, son?’
‘Not the full date, no. I just changed the year by two and so to them I’m eighteen.’
‘Very clever, half a lie rather than a full one.’ His father’s face became a brief smirk. ‘Speaking of clever, or not, have you seen this rubbish they printed in the paper? All about the cost of war and encouraging lads to think about their decision before signing up. It’s cowardice, rank cowardice if you ask me. Typical of the kind of nonsense that your brother gets up to at that paper. This Albert Barnes should be ashamed of himself. How could they let him write such a thing, let alone publish it?’
‘It wasn’t him, Dad. I overheard him say it wasn’t. He’s even signed up for the regiment. I saw him at the recruitment office.’
‘Odd.’ His father was back flicking through the newspaper.
George had a thought and rummaged in his pocket. He pushed the shilling across the table. His confidence was rising by the second, secure in the knowledge that his father was on his side. He could do anything with his father on side. ‘It’s not much, but there will be more where that’s come from and I’ll make sure it is sent here while I’m out in France, for you and Ma.’
‘We don’t care about the money, George. We get along all right. This isn’t about money.’ He shoved the paper aside again and looked at George. This time his eyes were full of warmth. Gone was the stare that made George feel tiny. ‘This is about doing something right; doing something bigger than yourself. The money is yours if you want it, we’ve no right to claim it. You’ve done the right thing.’
Frank leaned over and dropped a newspaper in front of him, as Joe was crossing out some lines on a piece of paper. It was that morning’s copy of The Times.
‘What’s this, Frank?’
‘You know what it is. It’s The Times. What else could it be? Have you gone blind all of a sudden?’ He cackled and Joe struggled not to give him a stern look that a school teacher might give an unruly pupil.
‘You know what I mean, Frank. Why have you thrown it on my desk? I was busy working.’
‘When are you not busy working, Joe? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stop. You’re always in here before me, and still here after I’ve gone home for the night.’
That much was true, but often he was just reading, or trying his hand at writing. Every morning he would come back in and go over what he had written, then throw it away in disgust. The only way he would get better was to keep trying.
‘It’s a report on the British Army, Joe,’ Frank said, bringing Joe out of his reverie by prodding the paper with his index finger. ‘It’s not looking good.’
He flicked through the first couple of pages. The grainy pictures of smiling soldiers and waving men at the recruiting offices were a stark contrast to the headlines and articles. Perhaps that was the whole point, Joe thought. The British Army had been heavily defeated at the small Belgian town of Mons, it said. They had taken over a thousand casualties and were on the retreat.
He set the newspaper down and took a sip of water from a glass on his desk. His throat had gone dry.
‘Are you all right, lad? You look pale as a ghost.’
Concern and confusion was etched across Frank’s face, and he could clearly sense Joe’s discomfort. He took the newspaper back when Joe didn’t reply.
‘I just keep thinking of our George going out there.’
‘I didn’t think he’d shipped out yet?’
‘No, he’s not gone yet, but soon they say. With heavy losses like this, they will be sending them all over as soon as possible. See how many they’ve lost, and the war has only just started.’
‘Well, wait, look here,’ Frank said, prodding the newspaper and waving it in his face. ‘It also says that the Germans suffered many more casualties, expected to be in the thousands.’
‘Oh, and that means it’s going to be all right, does it?’ Joe felt ashamed at his outburst, but Frank was unconcerned.
‘It’s war, lad. There’re bound to be casualties. But if we’re inflicting more than them, then we will win. It’s a simple matter of numbers. We’ve suffered defeats before and still won the war, and still looked good in uniform.’ He smiled emphatically, but it had no effect on Joe.
‘It also says here,’ Joe said, grabbing the newspaper, ‘that we’re on the retreat.’ He paused for a second, waiting for it to settle in. He had never thought of the British Army as ‘we’ before. The idea of nationalism was disconcerting. Perhaps the national pride was working its way into his psyche too. ‘The British Army are almost as far back as Paris. That’s something like… like a hundred and thirty miles from where they started. They’re no longer helping Belgium, not anymore. The Germans far, far outnumber the British Army, even if they keep inflicting casualties, it’s unsustainable.’
‘Then they’re gonna need our help, lad. You know it makes sense.’
Joe sighed.
‘Come on, lad. I keep saying you’d look good in a uniform. There may be lots of them Germans, but they’ll take one look at you and run away with their tails between their legs.’
He made a sound like a dog whimpering and ran around the desk. Some of the other men looked up, wondering what was going on, and Joe laughed.
‘Carry on like that, and you’ll get yourself shot,’ he said as Frank sat down again, lazily draping his arm over the back of the chair. ‘They’ll shoot you just to shut you up.’
‘Steady on, lad,’ Frank said, all mock innocence. ‘I have the very vocal cords of a tenor, me.’ He burst into song, singing a couple of lines then stopping. ‘Even the Germans will be rushing over to hear me. Hah.’
‘I’d like to see that.’
He was being honest. It would be quite a sight, and perhaps show some semblance